


The Taste of Scotch

by motsureru



Series: Broken Glass [16]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-10
Updated: 2008-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-11 18:19:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motsureru/pseuds/motsureru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a bonus drabble I included in the original doc uploads of my Broken Glass/Any Other Night/Victims of Circumstance three-series epic. It is a kind of fan fiction of fan fiction for Broken Glass, because my beta really wanted the Preston and Murphy characters to have some kind of relationship. So it is a drabble about Murphy's (fictional?) feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Taste of Scotch

 

            He’d never liked the taste of scotch. He could drink a whiskey sour and hardly bat an eye, but scotch was a flavor Preston could just never acquire a taste for. That’s why, he supposed, that when he saw Murphy order it, he grimaced and shook his head, feeling like an old man for doing so. “Never saw how anyone could drink that stuff,” Preston began.

            Settling into the stool next to him, Murphy smiled broadly, motioning to the glass already in front of Preston. “I could say the same. Whiskey’s not my thing. But if it got you to loosen up I’d order one myself too.” He chuckled and nudged Preston’s arm with his elbow, leaning back a little as the bartender set his glass out. “There we go…” Murphy ruffled his own dark brown hair, getting a little too long around the ears now, and finally put his hand to his glass. He lifted it towards Preston, waiting.

            Preston frowned a little, but grasped his own glass anyway, lifting it too.

            Murphy clinked them together. “To leaving the past behind?”

            “…” Preston sighed and brought the drink to his lips.

            His partner frowned, setting down his whiskey. “C’mon, Pres, you can’t be this attached to the Gray case. You can’t take it this personally. You said it yourself, you just can’t handle it. It’s way out of our league.” Murphy motioned with his hands to emphasize his point, spreading them out against the empty air.

            Shaking his head, Preston slid his glass out for another. “It’s not about the case, about what I can or can’t do…”

            Murphy finally grabbed his glass and drank from it. “Then what is it?”

            “It’s Virginia Gray. It’s her, lying dead and unappreciated, taken advantage of, robbed of life. It’s her getting betrayed by her only son and- and mocked, mocked even in death- blood painted in and disrespected-” he stopped when the next drink was set out. He took it quickly, clearing his throat as the liquid burned on its way down.

            Murphy clapped a hand on Preston’s shoulder, squeezing it. “That’s the job, Adrian. We don’t get them all.” he said seriously, but sympathetically. His hand lingered. “We can only take it day by day.”

            A bitter smile tugged at Preston’s lips. “Day by day? With petty street thugs and anonymous shootings? I- God I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m too old for this. The older I get the more attached to life I get. It’s supposed to be the other way around; after seeing all this horror for so long you’re supposed to get detached, desensitized. You’re supposed to-”

            “Shut up Preston. Get another drink.” Murphy lightly tapped Preston’s cheek with the back of his fingers. “You can be angry at life another night. You’re aren’t old and you’re a good cop. Even youngins like me know you have to start somewhere, even if it’s petty gangs and street thugs. You used to give me lectures like that, when we first got partnered.”

            Preston glanced over at Murphy, watching him as he finished off another glass with the endurance of a younger man. He smiled slightly. “Old dogs, I suppose. Can’t learn the new tricks, just forget the old ones.”

            Murphy set his glass down with a resounding knock against the wooden surface of the bar. “You call yourself old again and I’ll really give you a slap.” He grinned over at his partner, brown eyes settling on blue.

 

            He hadn’t been expecting the room to spin when he stood, but he’d found himself a lighter weight at drinking than he had been some five years ago, the last time he remembered Murphy being able to drag him out for alcohol-induced stress relief. Preston stumbled forward down the hall, fumbling with his keys and chuckling a little to himself about it, hearing Murphy giggle as he trailed behind, a hand on his shoulder to be guided.

            “Didja see his face?” Murphy asked, laughing still, “A coupla cops without enough cash to get them both home- HA. Taxis…” his words trailed off, slurred a little. He leaned a bit on Preston’s shoulder as the man finally found the right key for the door at the end of the hall. “ ’S been a while since I’ve been to your place…”

            “Doesn’t look any different, Chuck…” Preston remarked, unlocking the deadbolt first, then the door itself. He gave a sigh of relief when it opened, feeling his head still swimming in protest. “Just remember… your shoes,” he mumbled, a quieter drunk than Murphy was. They’d spent the last three hours at the bar- right up until closing- and now both were worse for the wear.

            “Ha! Clean, clean Adrian… dunno how you stand it…” Murphy swayed a little as he made his way into the room, squinting from the lack of light.

           Preston slid his own shoes off using the toes of his feet, and then shut the door. He fumbled momentarily with the bolt, the chain, and then the lock. He took a moment to breathe in deeply, telling himself he couldn’t have a hangover in the morning, or he’d pay. He heard Murphy shuffle about with his shoes, but when he turned back, the man was no farther away than he had been before.

            Feeling his coat snatched up abruptly, the next sensation Preston felt was the slam of his body back against the door, and then the sting of scotch invading his mouth. Warm lips were pressing over his, and from the scent and taste he knew precisely whose. Preston’s mind gave a dizzying lurch, and he felt his lips moving to return that deep and hasty kiss just a second before his hands reached out and pushed Murphy back by the shoulders.

            Gasping in a bit of air, Preston felt his heart begin to pound and his face burning with an alcohol and fluster flush. Had Murphy just…? He could make out Murphy’s form in the darkness, and still felt his hands gripped tight around the collar of his jacket. Neither man said anything. They simply breathed and drank in the dumbfounded silence. This was dangerous territory to tread, in the state they were both in.

            It was Preston that finally spoke. “…Chuck… you’re drunk…” he whispered, finding no other explanation that seemed suitable.

            The figure opposite Preston hesitated, and then slowly Murphy eased his grip and let his hands fall away. “…Yeah. Guess I am.” Another moment passed. Then Murphy turned, shrugging off his jacket, and made his way towards the living room couch.

            The taste of scotch lingered on Preston’s lips.


End file.
